


Grace

by o_antiva



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anders Positive, Country Healer Goings-on, Hurt/Comfort, Lore - Freeform, Multi, Mystery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_antiva/pseuds/o_antiva
Summary: Varric Tethras once said he must have nine lives. Anders figured he had gone through most of them by now.Four years after his exorcism, Anders learns to live in a world without Vengeance. His wanderings have taken him across Thedas as an anonymous apostate healer. He is tending to the villagers and refugees in the Fereldan hinterlands when an unseen force begins to set his life on a path toward redemption.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In-universe to _A Grand Hymn Rose_ but perfectly standalone in its own right. 
> 
> Warning: This story features involves heavy themes of suicide and self-destructive behavior, though it bends toward a positive outcome...

It was a long walk to Lothering, a long walk in silence. Rotted signposts pointed the way across a wild landscape, and the mud of the roads left off into a weedy indentation that wended through the moors. From time to time, water ran over what remained of the road, and in one wet depression a spill of lilypads had spread their leaves. There had been no one to spare in fixing the roads. There had been no one really to travel them. For miles the wind swept over gorse and heather. Birdwings whispered when a flock took flight. It was a lonely walk, and the traveler went on, not knowing _why_ , only where.

The traveler had the look of a pilgrim, long body wrapped in a cowled and tattered cloak. Uneven stitches connected the two lengths of fabric, both wool, but different in color and quality. His shirt and breeches were homespun, intended to fit another man and haphazardly altered to hang on his frame. He was taller than most of the men born in the hamlets and homesteads of Ferelden, much taller, but slender, with lean muscle and a gentle demeanor that kept him from towering. He went into the wind with a bowed head, the hood blown back, his hair a nimbus of shaggy gold shot through with gray. He had the look of a man from the Anderfels, the angular face, the bone-white skin, an austere and masculine beauty framed in a beard of darker blond. His eyes were a dull color somewhere between brown and grey, not much life to them, and they looked on somewhere in the distance.

He hadn't seen a signpost for some time yet, but the first of the wagons and carts were rising into view. Growing weeds climbed up the broken wheels, threaded in and out of the spokes until they reached out with new shoots above the road. When Lothering fell to the Blight, the people had left in a panic with all their worldy goods, and the roadway had been choked with wagons and carts. Here they lay, picked clean of anything useful, some ten years abandoned. He sometimes felt he had been watched, or that someone followed him. Once he almost had the impression that someone walked with him near Redcliffe, a boy in a wide-brimmed hat. He'd been mistaken then. A trick of the eye. Perhaps an effect of the Calling, whose pull was stronger by the day. It wouldn't be long now.

When the sun broke through the clouds, he took a moment against the hulk of a wagon that once looked like it had been painted. Chips of faded color showed on the wood. The traveler shouldered off his pack and sat it on the wheel, held in place by its own saggy weight. It carried what remained of his life now: dried herbs, tea, clean bandages, a mess kit, and a change of clothes in as poor shape as those he currently wore. A bedroll and a copper cup were strapped to the bulk of the knapsack. There was nothing truly worth taking among these humble effects, all but the little stub of something wrapped up in wool and buried in the bottom of his belongings. You would never know it was there unless you knew the little hum of lyrium.

It was growing warmer in the day, but he would keep the woolen cloak. He would have to carry it no matter what he did. He drank some water from a skin, feeling more weary than he should. He knew he ought to eat more than he did, but he no longer experienced any hunger. He had no interest in it, as with most things any more.

He didn't know what he hoped to find there in Lothering. Yet it felt like he must go, a mournful sense that had been building for some time. Perhaps he wanted to feel some kind of closure, if that were even possible. 

Most days he felt like he wandered through life like an epilogue, his story long ended, with all its consequences presented before him. _This is what you did. This is what you caused to happen._

Bleak thoughts kept him company on the remainder of the road. He had looked in on one wagon and seen a smattering of bones there. Roofless houses came into view, their walls opened to the sky, the stone foundations overtaken with greenery. The chantry looked a marvel of weedy vegetation, half-collapsed, with the branches of young trees rising from within. A broken Andraste worked miracles in the colored panes of glass of the remaining windows. A bird had built its nest in a crook beneath one panel. Thieves and looters had taken everything else from the chapel, any gold as in the candlesticks, or jeweled goblets, or any other sacred objects set with precious stones or metals. It didn't matter in the end. The Maker was not to be found in the chantry.

The traveler combed through the chantry yard at first, and when he walked among the memorial garden, he found that someone kept it clear of weeds. He read through the plaques for a familiar name, but he saw only the generations of small village life. Their jars and memorials were kept here, but perhaps their ashes were scattered in the fields and moors beyond, or in some place that spoke to them when they were alive.

Perhaps the name would not be here by the chantry, for one reason or another. He could understand that. He wandered for a time among the ruins, and something led him toward the northern end of the village. It might have been the scent of herbs in the afternoon sun.

There he discovered the ruins of a croft he knew from a story. It had been destroyed in the time of the Blight, but before the horde had reached Lothering. Consumed by fear and envy, and stirred to violence in a desperate time, the people of the village had come at night with torches to throw fire on the home. They should have known that the family would have shared with them the things they wanted to take, and afterward, when the teeth and claws and rusty blades of the enemy came for them, the village of Lothering was left without its healer.

Yet the traveler found something in the ruins that surprised him. With no one to tend the garden, the herbs had grown freely and without a care, and now the grey stones were amassed with oregano and thyme, a riot of mint and lemongrass, and thick waves of vibrant elfroot. His healer's eye recognized the cultivars of the Bitter and Gossamer varieties, along with other strains whose names he did not know. For a long time he meandered through a never-ending tangle of healthy green growth, where the scent of a dozen spices and herbs wafted through the air. He almost felt peace, but his regrets never let him.

He had been watching a bee crawl through through the tufts of lavender when he realized he was not alone. Truly this time. With great care, he turned to find a man standing across the expanse of the overgrown garden. He wore the plain clothes of a farmer, a nut-brown man in his fifties perhaps, his black hair steely at the temples. There was a practiced ease to the way he stood, something that spoke of a certain discipline. The traveler would know it anywhere.

"Well, now, you're a tall fellow, aren't you?" the templar called out to him, his voice a deep melody of warm interest.

The traveler cleared his throat so he wouldn't croak when he talked. "Did you need something off the top shelf?" 

"If I did, I would thank the Maker that you showed up." The man smiled and the traveler could see the damage that years of lyrium had left on his body-- but not his spirit. "I'm going to walk closer to you now, if that's all right."

"Don't step on the garden, please." 

"Oh, never." He limped his way around the growth. "We don't see many travelers here in Lothering."

"I'm only passing through." 

The traveler watched him approach. Favored his left leg-- an injury in the Blight, or perhaps only bad knees from the years of wearing armor. A knight only kitted up for practice or battle, but the templars believed they must be prepared at any time. He'd have a bad back too, most likely. Here he came, weary but friendly, his teeth discolored but intact. He might have been quite handsome once. "You looked like you were searching for something," he said.

The traveler thought to lie, and he could have, but what use was it now. He wasn't much longer for any of this, and he might as well try to find some measure of peace. "I was looking for Malcolm Hawke's memorial. The-- he was the healer here as I understand."

The answer did not seem to surprise the templar, who just nodded his head. "He didn't want it in the chantry yard. Thought it might give offense. I told him it was silly, but he wanted it in the garden. It's down this way, follow the mint... "

The traveler accompanied him as he shuffled along a path that snaked through the greenery. "You wouldn't know a Ser Bryant, would you," he said. "The templar who served the chantry here." Yet the traveler knew the answer to his question; he felt it humming in his chest. 

"That was me," replied the templar. "You knew the family?"

"I did. Garrett and Leandra were friends of mine." After a slight pause, he added, "Garrett spoke of you from time to time. He remembered you fondly."

Bryant looked over his shoulder, his smile tight with emotion. "Really, then?" His eyes slid away. "Garrett was a good lad. One of a kind. Were you one of the mages he set free, then?"

_One of a kind. He'd said it so easily._

"How did you know? Besides my telling you just now." Wasn't that a crime story trick.

"I always know," the templar told him. 

"What are you doing here, Bryant?"

"My wife's making a roast, and I came to pick some mint leaves. We have a cottage just down the way." 

The traveler smiled despite himself. "And you limping like this?"

"It does me well to move around. I get stiff otherwise." Bryant smiled back, easy as you like. "Anyhow, she's a big Chasind woman, my wife, so I'd best do as she says."

The templar led him to a sunny patch where a few stones were set out. "Here we are," Bryant said. "This is where the garden started. Damnedest thing, they burnt the house to the ground... but a year later, when we came back, the whole lot was overtaken with all the herbs. It was a sign, I think." 

The traveler smiled thinly. 

"I'll let you be, but I'll wait around for you a bit if you like." Bryant clapped him on the shoulder in a gesture that surprised him. 

The traveler murmured "thank you" as the limping figure of the templar receded up the path. He was left with the memorial, the garden, and a dozen butterflies that drifted on the breeze. Malcolm's plaque was kept clear, and, the traveler noticed, there was a small pile of stones stacked together in Chasind style. For Bethany, perhaps? 

He didn't know what he hoped to accomplish here. To pay his respects to Malcolm? To ask his forgiveness? He had destroyed the family, in the end... everyone. All his friends. He was afraid to ask what happened afterward, to search for details. It would threaten his identity, not that he felt a pressing need to survive. It was against his will that he stood in the land of the living. A hostage here. Why had Garrett done this to him?

The traveler knelt to place his hand upon the carven stone. He had no more tears these days, but he felt a raw expanse open in his chest. The day was lovely all around him, full of flowers and herbs, a vibrant day after a heavy rain, with a contented windy silence blowing across the wild. Somehow this was was worse.

He felt that weird sensation pass over him again. The hairs on his arms standing up. After years of living with Justice, he recognized intrusive thoughts when he heard them, but this was different somehow: kind. No judging. _The dead man already gave you his answers. The living one might have more for you. Let's go see._

When he glanced up, the traveler thought he saw someone standing in the field beyond-- almost a scarecrow, skinny-tall, with homespun clothes that didn't fit. A brimmed hat. But no. His imagination. 

He knew he shouldn't speak to Bryant again, who already knew too much. You couldn't trust the templars, even now. Who's to say what he might mention to someone. 

_No. I have to do this. I think I'm meant to do this._

Anders whispered a prayer to Malcolm and Bethany, people he never knew in life, but who he could picture clearly from the stories told by those who loved them. He wished he had something to leave for them, but he had nothing suitable as an offering. And nothing he could do would ever repay what he had done.

Fighting down his dark thoughts, he turned back toward the cluster of ruined houses up the way. He rubbed his throat as if to smooth his voice. He didn't think he could cry any more, but sometimes his voice could still break. He found Bryant sitting on a boulder, resting his leg, no doubt. He had gathered a few handfuls of mint in a cloth, and the smell of the juice was powerful. 

Bryant looked up at him with a smile, his dark eyes wrinkled at the corners. Anders knew he was being measured but not judged, somehow. A warm curiosity borne of compassion, as if to wonder what might bring a tired, starving man to the middle of nowhere. 

As Anders approached him, Bryant gathered his things and went to stand. He grunted with some difficulty. The leg must trouble him especially. Anders extended an open hand-- "May I?" he said, and Bryant nodded, perhaps not knowing yet what he offered. He laid his hand on Bryant's shoulder-- it didn't have to be near the injury at his proficiency-- and he let a slow magic seep in. 

He could see it work from the relief that swept over the templar's face. Bryant tested his weight full on his leg. His entire stance changed. "Maker, that's good, thank you," he said. 

"It won't last, I'm afraid."

"Of course. I've done lyrium for far too long... but it's good to feel like myself again, if just for awhile." 

"You don't take any of it now?"

"Clean for several years."

"You should drink plenty of water, and a cup of milk every day if you can manage." 

"Why milk?"

"Lyrium will damage your bones. Milk can help with that." 

"That's good to know, thank you."

"Don't thank me. Garrett had a side project to help templars who wanted to leave the order, but couldn't, because of their addiction. He was always looking for a remedy."

"He was a good man."

"You never cared what they were."

"No. I'll admit, I was afraid of Malcolm at first from what I'd heard of him. But as soon as I'd met him, I knew he'd be a friend for life. Garrett and Bethany couldn't help what they were, and the Circle wouldn't have known what to do with them. It seemed useless to me, worse than useless. What if it were the Maker's will?"

Anders bowed his head. He couldn't trust himself to say anything, but Bryant continued, "I did what I could to help them here. I only regret how the village turned them out in the Blight... I tried to stop them, but once a few knights from Redcliffe threw into the mix, there was nothing I could do."

"They left early when they might have died otherwise. They barely escaped Ferelden as it was."

"On the back of a dragon, no less," the templar replied, a gentle humor restoring in his eyes. "I read the tale." 

"Have you heard any news of the family?" 

"Some. Kirkwall is still putting itself back together. There's no viscount yet. The other nobles are afraid to take it, but they won't let anyone else, either. Young Carver is Lord Amell now, he's left the templars, Maker be thanked. Lives as a hero-adventurer now, like he always wanted. Suits him."

"Lord Amell. Good for him. I suppose all the noble ladies will be lining up."

"I suppose they did," Bryant said with a laugh. "But he married a friend of his instead, a dalish elf, and an open mage at that. Caused a great deal of scandal among the biddies, I'll wager, but no one dares to try anything."

Anders rubbed his chest by his collarbone, as if to squash the strange sensation that developed there. "A dalish mage?" he asked, dumbly.

"They seem happy. Two children. Sometimes I get a letter from him, sealed up with a fancy signet ring. He's been very kind to remember me." 

"It was good that the family had you for a friend."

"I was thinking the same. I suppose Garrett is out running around? I heard he was last seen somewhere in Orlais." 

"I don't know." 

"He'll make it back. He's a strong lad."

Anders swallowed thickly. "Everyone blames him for the war." 

"No they don't. No one who matters. The war was coming the instant the Chantry granted itself the powers it took from others. The Nevarran Accord-- ah, now, you haven't come to listen to an old man go on about politics. At least not without a pint, eh... us old fellows like to gather at the pub to rant like this."

"No, no-- finish your thought."

"I was saying only that the Chantry failed the people, the mages, and the templars alike. You cannot treat grown men and women like children, like prisoners, or dangerous lunatics-- or that is exactly what you will make them. But never you mind. It was building for some time, and the matter of Tranquility was the final blow. It's said now they've always known how to turn the Tranquil back, but they've kept it as a tool of fear-- not to mention it makes the chantry a fair bit of coin. The templars should have voted as the mages did, to free themselves also of the Chantry's influence... but they did so only to pursue Fiona's people and put them to the sword. A pox on the leaders of the Order, who started this war, who preferred a dead mage to a free one."

"I hadn't heard it put that way," Anders replied, carefully. 

"Everyone wants someone to blame, but they never want to look inside themselves. The Chantry's the worst at it. I think it's that we spend so much time obsessed with her sacrifice, her burning at the stake, her flames, her ashes... it's so much of her pain and suffering and punishment. What of her life, her friends, her compassion? I think we're best served just shutting up and trying to make things better. Unless we're to have a rant in the pub, but I think everyone deserves a little of that.. "

For awhile, Anders could only breathe, trying to force a flurry of thoughts into a solid form. "It's-- been a rough few years. Always traveling. I fought for this for so long, but I never thought I would live to see it. A world I wasn't meant to be a part of. Yet I remain, when so many others died... it's difficult." 

"But you've helped people as best you could." 

"The least I could do."

"So you feel at a loss of what to do, but why not continue to help? It's never too late." 

"I'm tired." 

"I can see it in your face, my friend. There's no reason to go alone. Think you'll join the Inquisition?" Bryant quirked something of a smile. "Not the best name, mind you... "

"This may surprise you, but I've had enough of the Chantry by now... "

"Aye then, so have I. So is the Maker, I think. I believe that's why He chose an elf for His champion. Things are going to be different. Anyway, the Chantry hates the Inquisition these days, all those reverend mothers and sisters swearing up and down about false prophets. So you know she must be doing something right."

Anders simply followed him for a time, his head swarming with thoughts. "You'll forgive me," he said softly at last, "I'm unused to having such a conversation. It's been awhile since I've spoken at length with anyone." 

"I'll save my politics for the tavern," Bryant assured him. "You'll join us for the roast, then, won't you?"

"I couldn't."

They walked together for some moments more, and Bryant seemed to compose himself for something he wanted to say. Softly it came, an almost conspiratorial undertone, "I know who you are, by the way. I knew the instant I saw you, really." 

A chill swept over Anders' body, even under the scratchy wool cloak. Half-dizzy, he said, "Did you."

Bryant watched him closely, and his smile was gentle. "You're Trevelyan, the healer in the hinterlands. I've heard about your good works."

Oh. "It's-- nothing."

"It's everything, for the people you saved." 

Anders shrugged. "I wanted to help put their lives back together," he said, and he stopped on the path that lead toward a new settlement beyond. He couldn't go any further. "I must part ways with you here, Bryant."

"A pity, but I understand. You should take as many herbs as you like from their old garden. The elfroot in particular-- you'd never know it came in so many different kinds."

"Thank you. That's a good idea."

"Come by anytime you like. You're not too far away." 

Anders held out his hand, and Bryant clasped his arm in a friendly grip. "Take care of yourself." 

"Don't forget about the milk."

"I won't, thank you."

"And you didn't see me."

"I didn't see anything." Bryant winked. "I never do."

Anders watched him gambol back to the settlements, where the smoke from a chimney was giving forth a good cooking smell. A child of about four or five years emerged from an indignant cloud of chickens and ran toward his father. Anders' heart panged; he found himself wanting to sit down for a proper meal, for a hot roast with herbs, for the warmth of conversation and simple companionship. 

His eyes stung when he turned away. He thought he lost the capacity to feel sadness of any sharpness any more, but there it was, cutting more deeply than he could imagine. 

_It hurts because you're alive,_ he found himself thinking, almost as if someone whispered the words to him. _You must keep going forward._

Anders slogged his way back to the gardens. He ought to take some cuttings. They didn't have herbs like these back in Redcliffe, and the growing season had just begun. They would need means to salve and heal themselves after he was gone; you couldn't magic everything away, after all.

He believed himself alone with his thoughts. It was a lot to mull over, and it would keep him busy for some time. Carver and Merrill? The Rite of Tranquility? What did it mean, Garrett last seen in Orlais? He was gone. He was dead. He had killed himself to stop the war, but the war came anyway, full and terrible. Why would they say they had seen him? It was a dizzying thought that left Anders breathing hard in a patch of overgrown garden, trying to stop his hands from shaking. Bryant seemed so sure, and he hadn't been a stupid man. He knew, of course. He had to know. What did this mean?

The sun was setting now. Anders had what he needed, and more than he knew what to do with. He swung his knapsack over his shoulder, the smell of cut herbs pervading his senses. He would have to head back now; he knew he would lose his nerve if he stayed any longer. He left the lost village, and Cole went with him, as he often did these days.


	2. Chapter 2

He preferred to keep busy these days. 

The worst of the fighting was over. The fires were extinguished. The banks of ice melted. Glyphs and wards dissolved. Wounds closed. The bodies of rebel mages and templars had been heaped up and burned, after the smallfolk had gone through their clothing for anything worth taking. It was done now. An uneasy peace fell across the hinterlands, but there was always more work to do.

He was going by Trevelyan now. When people asked what to call him, the name popped in his head, and he hadn't known right away from where. There had been a bookseller's stall in the Hightown market and that had been the man's name, he thought. A vague Free Marches name. At the time this all began, he hadn't expected to live much longer anyway, but he _had_ , and now he was stuck with it.

Varric Tethras once said he must have nine lives. Anders figured he had gone through most of them by now.

He never looked on the role of healer as anything permanent in the hinterlands, but it was work that needed doing, and it was work he did well. He was the best. It was no boast: his talent for healing was the only thing that emerged from the vast mire of self-loathing. Few had more experience than he did, those long years running the clinic in Kirkwall. First by himself, and then with Garrett, who protected the clinic with his name and his legal standing. Trauma. Bloodshed. Illness. Childbirth. Anything and everything. The bad as well as the good. 

Just the other day, Anders had worked another of his casual offhanded miracles. Someone had run to fetch him-- a young man he almost recognized from somewhere-- and he'd raced to find the scene of the tragedy. A crofter family was returning from market day in Redcliffe when a footbridge broke beneath their draft horse. Animal, cart, and family fell into the rocky stream below. For perhaps half an hour the father had lain in the water, trying to keep the head of his youngest above the surface. They'd been pinned. The horse screamed with a broken leg-- they'd have to put it down when this was all over. The farmwife attempted to saw through the straps, to dig out the wheel, but there wasn't much that two exhausted people could do.

Anders had energized the cart and lifted it off. Simple as that. He waded in to heal the boy, closing his wounds as though it were nothing. When the sobbing parents dragged their child to the bank, he healed the draft horse, who sprang up and snorted and kicked on the bank like a foal that has just learned to walk. It seemed to understand what he had done for it, its huge soft dark eyes radiant with life. Anders had listened to the boy's breathing, checked his eyes by a soft created light, and talked gently with the mother and father for a few minutes to make sure they were all right. Sometimes you missed an injury in all the excitement. The joy and relief of the family were good to witness, but their effusive thanks embarrassed him. Truth be told, the most difficulty in that incident had been the matter of the animal. More than twenty years had passed since he had much to do with horses, and he was wary of the draft horse, whose hoof was like a dinner plate. 

Sometimes he almost felt a measure of satisfaction, but at the end of the day, when activity died down, the dark thoughts crept into the quiet spaces of his mind.

Of course he should help these people put their lives back together. He was to blame for their present troubles.

Anders often wondered what it would have been like if he had been able to live like this from the beginning. If home had been the dilapidated cottage he now inhabited. If he could walk openly among the villagers and heal their wounds and listen to their pain. What if he and Garrett fixed up the tumbledown croft in Lothering. Bryant had seemed so kind, so genuine.

It was no use tormenting himself, yet he persisted anyhow. Justice was no longer present to provide that service. It didn't feel normal without a constant voice to criticize him.

If it were a usual day, he might wake at dawn and start the fire for the kettle. Tea or herbs these days. He missed the taste of coffee boiled in the long-handled copper pots. Even after four years he still felt the pang of wanting a cup of it. But they were too far south of the equator, and he hadn't seen any Rivaini or Tevinters among the merchant ships at the Redcliffe docks.

He liked to review his notes from the day before. Patients, their symptoms and situations. Questions that had been asked of him. Treatments he had prescribed. Shortfalls in supplies. Bits of interest that he wanted to remember, putting them down to re-used scraps of paper with a little stump of charcoal. His memory wasn't what it used to be. 

No one had touched the things in his cottage this time. He hadn't been gone long on his journey to Lothering, but in the beginning, his things were always raided. People had been hungry. Desperate. He had moved his dwelling several times, like a wild animal that changes its lair. He preferred a certain waterfall cave, but it turned out to be less hidden than he originally believed. A pity. There had been proper ventilation and access to water; smoke from the fire found its way out, and it was good to stand in the cold and let the falls wash over him.

Now he kept a humble dwelling abandoned in a thicket. Perhaps it belonged to a forester originally. He didn't know, as most of everything had been removed from the roundhouse. A separate building crumbled not too far away.

Only a few people knew he stayed here. Maura and Sennon. Adahlen, the mercenary. Thalia, the fletcher's daughter. _Adaar_. Sera, of course-- she liked to stick her head through the hole in the thatched ceiling and cackle like a loon.

Sera, Sera. He had truly come to appreciate her. Their friendship began with an "Oi, Trev! Come help me find this lost druffalo," followed shortly by a "Like you wasn doin nuffink better." He hadn't known what to make of her at first, but she was fierce in her protection of the ordinary people. From time to time, he caught himself wondering what Sebastian would have thought of her. 

There was still light in the day of his return, so he read through his ledger as he puttered around the cottage. He wanted to check on the family with the draft horse. He should inquire after the woman with the persistent cough-- it should have cleared itself by now, most likely brought on by the change in the weather. Adahlen, of course, remained his prevailing concern. Lothering was as far as he would travel until she was well settled after the birth. She seemed to be doing so much better, though, a trend he hoped would continue. Pregnancy was fraught with danger. He wished he had better access to a midwife, but the only one he knew was often away on her work. She'd been talking about taking an apprentice.

Anders wondered if the dalish might assist if anything went wrong with Adahlen, but Sennon told him the chaos had driven the wild elves away. With maddened templars descending upon the countryside, not even the dalish had been safe. No one had. Even Maura's husband had been slain for apostasy, but it turned out he hadn't been carrying a staff-- only a shovel. Her bitterness ran deep. 

He'd intended to pay her a visit. There was a good sunny patch around her cottage, and he envisioned the herb cuttings taking root there. He didn't want to plant them about his own cottage, since heavy branches cast deep shadows, and anyhow, who would take care of them after? 

The afternoon light came beautifully through the new green leaves, and when he worked his way around a ridge, the lower valley opened to his sight: rolling fields and recovering farmland. One of the freeholders had been mending a fence for the last fortnight. Not that it mattered overmuch: for some reason, the man's cattle seemed to obey the idea of the fence rather than its reality. Anders liked them: the big ginger cows he remembered from his youth, with their coppery bangs falling in their faces, and their eyes big and dumb. They strained their necks over the fence to be petted sometimes if he walked that way. 

Maura wasn't home. Everything looked tidy and intact, so perhaps she had taken Adahlen down into the village. They could be drinking tea with Sennon, perhaps. Anders stooped to leave a bundle of herbs at her door, and he gave them some water from his skin. She would know he had returned. 

On the way back, he found himself lost in thought. The pregnancy made him think of Merrill. Two children by now. He wondered what they were like, and how she was living now with Carver. He wondered what the other noblewomen thought of the new Lady Amell. He hoped they weren't awful to her. He'd been awful to her. He'd been so awful...

It was growing dark now and Anders realized he hadn't walked the way home. He had wandered around the hillside path. The coming twilight was no issue to him: he could make his own light if he needed, which he didn't. Grey Wardens could see in the dark. However, he didn't like how absent-minded he had become these days. It was as though a cloud passed over his thoughts at times. It could be damage from the demon ripped out of him-- or the taint, catching up with him at last. The song of the Calling never felt too far away...

_No. Listen and you will hear him. He ran away, and only you can help him. You'll know what to say._

Anders felt a cold prickle over his skin. With a weird sensation thrumming in his chest, he continued up the path. Twisting roots of massive trees held in the hillside. The waterfall crashed nearby, cold and beautiful. He could hear nothing but the sound of the water, but something told him someone was nearby. The cave. Of course. The waterfall cave.

He called out a lingering hello... and heard something scramble in the dark.

"Anyone in there?" Anders pitched his voice.

He thought he heard the muffled sound of someone trying to hold back a sob.

Venturing forth, Anders added, "If you're a bear, say so."

Hmmm. Sounded like a girl crying. Anders wearily wondered if it wasn't a rift demon trying to lure in a bite to eat. Kirkwall had jaded him forever...

"Stay back!" a tearful voice told him. A young man, actually.

Anders halted. "Very well, I'll stay here," he said, "unless you're injured. I'm a healer."

"Leave me alone."

"Are you all right?" 

" _No._ " It sounded full of tears and snot and regret.

"What's wrong?" 

The young man's voice shuddered in reply.

"I'm coming in," Anders told him. "I won't hurt you." 

His eyes adjusted to the gloom. The young man huddled in the curve of the cave, wearing a filthy set of Circle robes. He hugged his knees, looking up, his face red and white with misery. He had all but cried himself out. Looked about twenty years of age, with unkempt auburn hair. There was a wild energy to him, though, real fear, and Anders noted a staff just within his reach. 

"It's all right," Anders said, "I'm also a mage. I'm Trevelyan-- I've been living here for a little while. Did you come here with Fiona's people?"

The young man said nothing. Anders sensed that he didn't want to cry when he talked. Some pride there. Poor thing. Some men just fell apart completely when they cried, as if it meant something of their character.

"I used to live in this cave, too," Anders told him. He knew he could loom over people sometimes, and his height could seem imposing to those who didn't know him yet. So he sat down against the opposite wall and hoped he wouldn't touch anything slimy. There had been some wonderfully disgusting mushrooms growing around here last time. "I thought myself so clever with my waterfall hideout. Unfortunately, everyone wants one, and I found myself unwitting roommates with two different bands of apostates, one surprised templar, and at least three crews of bandits. Also, a grumpy bear, and one wandering drunkard. It simply wouldn't do. Although the drunk had good stories."

The young man said nothing, so they passed some moments in silence. Then, bravely attempting to master his voice, the young man told him, "There's nothing you can do to help me."

"I could listen."

"Don't-- don't you know about me?" He wiped his nose, his mouth, on a grimy sleeve. He sounded so wretched, so thoroughly beaten down. "I'm Connor Guerrin."

Anders recalled the story now. He had heard what happened from Nathaniel, who had known the family in that distant other life of his, when he had been a lord. "How long have you been out here by yourself, Connor?"

"A little while. I-- I couldn't go with the others."

"To Skyhold."

"They're better off without me."

Anders felt a thickness in his throat. Ah. He knew this well. "Because of what happened all that time ago? Is that what you mean to say?"

Connor nodded fiercely, his eyes screwed shut.

"Do you feel like you're a threat to others?"

"It's said that a former abomination will always be at risk to falling again. I-- I can't bring that on the Inquisition. There's too much at stake. I-- I don't want, if anything happened... "

"Do you want to be one again?"

Connor's head snapped up. "No!" 

"Then you've nothing to fear," Anders replied. "Not really. You know what it felt like. You won't let it happen again."

"But they said it's even easier now than ever before."

"What do they know about it? There's too little written about curing an abomination. Few ever have the chance to be saved." 

"I'm just so tired of it."

"Your entire life lies ahead of you. This bad thing happened when you were a child. You had no way to defend yourself then, but you're grown now." 

"It doesn't matter."

"Some of them treated you as if you were damaged beyond repair. Is that it? And it's gone on for so long that you believe it."

He could tell these words hit home. Connor's face crumpled, and he hid in his arms. "We need to be controlled," he said. "We're dangerous. I-- I'm dangerous."

"We _are_ dangerous, but we have a special gift, Connor. The Maker gave this to you for a reason. What happened wasn't your fault, and it does no good to make you the scapegoat of the Circle's failures. Tell me, if the Fereldan tower had been such a wondrous place of learning and support, why would your parents fear to send you there? Even they had to know the abuses even then."

"I just can't go. The other mages hate me. I knew they were looking at me. I knew they were thinking about the monsters that took over Kinloch. Or they were thinking of people they knew that had to be put down. But I was an arl's son, so I had special treatment." 

"Is it to be your fault also that some lack basic compassion, then? The broken circle, the victims of demons... you can't rightly be blamed for those." Anders made his voice as gentle as he could. "Listen, Connor. It's growing dark, and it's damp. Why don't you come back with me, and I will put on the kettle. Will you do that?" 

Connor gave him an anguished look. He could tell the boy was starved for kindness, but afraid to accept an offer. He couldn't trust anything, even himself. "I don't want your pity," he whispered.

"But I don't pity you, Connor," Anders answered him. "It's that I understand you. I had a demon once... for many years. I killed a lot of people. I don't want to go to Skyhold, either, so I stay here and help people as I can."

Tears slid freshly from the young man's eyes. He looked on, only stunned.

"Please come back with me, Connor. When's the last you've eaten anything?"

...........

Led back by the light of his glowing hands, Anders brought Connor back to the cottage. The poor boy sniffled the entire way, and no doubt he suffered all the more for his pride. "I always hated to cry," Anders told him. "But everyone does it. Our bodies are strange sometimes, but I think that it helps. I'll get you some water to drink, so you don't dry out." 

Anders realized absently that he had nothing to eat in his hermit dwelling in the woods. He couldn't remember when he'd eaten anything himself-- perhaps at Maura's? In typical _Anders_ fashion he once again failed miserably at taking care of himself-- shit, hadn't Garrett had to wash his hair on more than one occasion? Now this was going to be a disappointment.

"Do you know this trick?" Anders asked the young man, starting the cookfire with a spell. Nobody had run off with the iron tripod, thankfully, so he set the kettle on its hook. Connor stood rubbing his arms, looking unsure of where to go or what to do. The boy looked exhausted. Garrett had been so much better at this-- all the sad scared magelings they had kept for a time in the house, until they were ready to make their escape. Garrett had been tireless in his pursuit to love everyone and everything. 

Anders seated Connor at one of the logs he used for a chair, giving him some water to work on. Then he ducked inside the cottage to assess the situation. At one point, he had considered setting up a cot in the other structure nearby, in case there was a patient who needed longer care or a closer watch. He'd never quite gotten around to it-- his plans these days often fell apart with apathy and a deep futile sense of depression. It would be too easy to make a new clinic these days... but he couldn't. He couldn't do that. He shouldn't make things that would keep him here.

Thus he was left with some extra linens-- poor quality yet clean, and they would do. He could make Connor a place to sleep by the table for now. There was room if he pulled the cot up beside it. Connor wasn't as tall as he was, so he wouldn't have to hunch and stoop everywhere in the cottage to avoid hitting his head on a hanging pan or bunch of dried herbs or a timber or whatnot. Adaar was always trying to avoid a snag when he came here.

_There are things to feed him here. The things she brought you from the kitchens, good and fun. You didn't eat them. You didn't want anything anymore, but it's all right, they're still here. You can give them to Connor._

It was somewhere in this preparation that Anders remembered Sera's gift. She brought him cookies, and-- yes, they were still there, wrapped up in a cloth. Dried and hard, but he didn't see any fuzz on them, and they were still an oatlike color. It was the best he could offer right now. Connor was still there when he came back out. Good. He had dried his eyes by this point, and he had composed himself somewhat. He still looked wrung out, but at least he drank all the water he was given. His bleary eyes watched Anders expectantly, wounded, yet wanting to trust him so badly.

Anders swallowed despite the lump in his throat. "These are a bit dry," he said, offering the cloth to him, "but I bet you could dip them to soften them up."

They drank tea together, mostly a calming blend of herbs, with the dried heads of chamomile and a few sprigs of elfroot. A crushed pod of blood lotus to help the boy sleep, but not enough to stir up any dreams. Connor ended up eating all of the cookies, one by one, and his color seemed to return-- such as it was, this pale Fereldan lad.

The night was cool and beautiful, every star in the sky shining through the canopy of trees above them. The sound of an owl came to them somewhere deep in the forest. The woodsmoke smelled good. Connor didn't say anything for awhile, his filthy robe dusted with crumbs; at the end, he hadn't waited to dip them in the tea and just crunched through them. Anders thought of Garrett's mabari Lady gobbling down her treats, who looked surprised when they were gone. 

In the span of this crunchy interlude, Anders had completely resolved himself to help this boy. He was meant to do this. He just knew. A tumult of emotions went through him: why hadn't anyone gone back for Connor? Didn't they notice his absence? Didn't they understand that the abuses of the Circle were the likely the reason of the arl's misgivings in the first place, the fear that compelled him to hide the boy at home? And it hadn't been Kinloch who saved Redcliffe from the demon. It had been the Grey Wardens and a blood magic sacrifice.

Anders studied the young man before him, keeping quiet, his earthen mug held between his hands. Connor stared into the fire for a time, but at last, he looked up to meet his eyes.

"Trevelyan?"

"Yes?" 

"They said-- you were an old man."

The gray, the beard, the skeletal frame. The world-weary way he drifted through the hinterlands. "I feel like an old man."

Connor looked away. "How did they cure you?" he asked.

"Someone who loved me very much still believed I could be saved. I didn't want it-- but here I am." A pause. "I heard what the Wardens did. That they did a ritual to save you."

Connor's lips tightened almost to nothing. "People talk about things they don't even understand. They weren't there. It's-- they had to do it. More people would have died. They didn't make a deal with any demon. The power came out of Jowan-- my teacher. And, and Mother... it was her choice."

"I understand, Connor. The world is far more complicated than the Chantry tells us."

"Do you still believe in the Maker?"

Anders summoned up a smile, hoping it didn't look as weary as he felt. "I still do. His work is all around us. It is good and beautiful-- He isn't cruel and petty like Men make him out to be. Men only make him like Men." 

"You... you didn't do any blood magic, did you?" 

There was such a despairing fear in Connor's eyes, as if he wanted to trust Anders, but he didn't know if he could. He had to be thinking of Jowan, who must have sat across from him once, as Anders did now.

"I didn't do any blood magic. It interferes with one's connection to the Fade and with healing magic from the School of Creation." He should have stopped there, but he felt compelled to continue. "I'll be honest with you, in all my time, I have come to believe that it doesn't inherently need to be evil. I believe the Chantry outlaws it out of confusion over Andraste's life and times, and the abuses of ancient Tevinter. More than that, the templars cannot detect its use nor stop it with their power. That is chief reason it is forbidden. It has to be."

He suspected such an elaborate answer might make him sound guilty, but there it was. Yet even in his exhausted state, Connor seemed to understand, if only by a measure. The young mage shrugged as if to explain. "You have a lot of scars on your arms. I saw them."

"Well... there were eyes and teeth growing out of them." Anders smiled weakly, then. He would have to find clothing that fit him better. Longer sleeves. If Connor saw it, then other people might see it, and they would get ideas.

Connor looked down. "Did you ever want to kill yourself?" He could see the convulsive swallow in the column of the boy's throat. 

_Cold water, sharp stones. He was waiting to find the thing inside him that would make him ready to jump. He'd been waiting for awhile. He doesn't want to die... he wants to live, but he doesn't know if he's allowed._

"I did. I even tried. I-- I don't wish to revisit it at this time, Connor, but I will say that I regretted it. At the time I didn't want to die... I just wanted the pain to stop and for my problem to be solved. Those are very different things." Anders kept his voice steady. He hadn't ever spoken to anyone about this before, not even Garrett. He felt he vomited so many problems over Garrett that he couldn't bear to put more upon him. He hadn't realized the undercurrent of Hawke's own fears, how deep they went. He should have known he would kill Garrett with what he'd done. He'd left him no way out. And Justice hadn't cared.

Anders blinked back the sting in his eyes. "These are chaotic times, Connor, and we're on the verge of a great change for the better. It may even be here-- the mages at Skyhold live freely, and there haven't been any troubles yet. It's a good thing. They can prove themselves against the enemy that faces us all. But with everything happening, I don't want you to slip through the cracks. It's not right. You deserve more. I want to help you however I can."

Connor's eyes shone in the firelight, but his tears did not fall. "I want to learn how to heal, like you do."

"Truly?"

"Yes. The way you help people... it's like you're not even trying." When Anders smirked, Connor quickly added, "No, I mean, it's not like you're _just mucking about_. I meant... it's a miracle."

Anders looked down into his cup, as if he might find some answer there. Teach Connor to heal? "Very well. I'll do my best to teach you. I warn you, I'm messy, disorganized, and I've never had an apprentice-- but we'll see what happens." Anders had considered the prospect in the past, but it was too risky to bring on another mage in the clinic. They barely got away with what they did. "I've a lot of work to do around the hinterlands. I could truly use the help." 

Connor brightened. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow. You need your rest." 

Connor took in a deep breath. "Thank you, Trevelyan," he said in a voice beset by a tremor.

Anders kindly bade him goodnight, and for awhile after, he sat holding his cup and watching the cookfire in front of the cottage. He let it die out into glowing embers, and the blue darkness returned to the forest. He hadn't expected his day to turn out how it did, but he felt a fleeting pain in his chest-- he knew he must do this. He was meant to do this. He had to believe that Hawke's decision meant something important. If he could prove that Connor could still lead a life worth living, that he could come back from that legendary point of no return-- then in the future there might be help for the afflicted. That they would never become so desperate. That the threat of demons would not be held over mages forever and made the reason for their abuse. 

_You wished you could have asked for help. You tried to find a way, but the Other One wouldn't let you._

"There was no one I could have gone to," Anders whispered to himself. "No one could have helped."

_I am sorry. I am here now. I came as soon as I could._


	3. Chapter 3

The nightmare again. 

He jolted awake. A rivulet of cold sweat ran down his back. He shivered and looked blankly around him, seeing without seeing. The aftereffects of the dream were still vivid in his mind. That room again. That terrible room. With long practice, Anders set about to calm himself, making himself look and note all of the things he saw around him.

Though it was still dark, he could still see detail in the cottage. He was safe. Nothing had happened in reality. The cold sweat made his hair tacky. He had drenched himself in perspiration throughout the night. That was fine. He meant to boil laundry that day anyway. 

Connor was a heap on the cot, completely out. Good. The boy was filthy, but there hadn't been time to properly sort him out last night. Anders had sawn an old keg in half, or somewhat a half, to use as a makeshift tub. He might heat some water for it later, or, better yet, teach Connor how to do that if he didn't already know the trick.

There was a dim blue light coming through the trees when Anders stepped outside the cottage. Not yet dawn. As he splashed his face from the rain barrel, he wondered where he might barter for supplies. The trip down to Redcliffe was longer than he wanted to make with Connor sleeping, yet it would be a kind gesture to have a meal waiting for him when he awoke. Real food this time.

The notion came to him that he might go to the Inquisition camp. Bag up all his loot. Things he didn't need. The Venatori hadn't lived up to his expectations, and the results of their confrontation were cluttered in the little outbuilding nearby. Blades, staves, armor, amulets. In the past, Anders had been content to offload them on Adaar and Sera, who might take these things to people who could use them. 

Anders considered it. Perhaps after Connor awoke. Best to find out if the boy needed anything, so he would only have to make one trip. He didn't like to linger around the Inquisition, no matter how friendly and welcoming some of them could seem. The elf Cillian had a way of putting you at ease, a gentle, unassuming little fellow, who liked to talk about his garden. Not what Anders had expected from a scion of an ancient and lethal discipline.

Working as quietly as he could, Anders began the task of clearing the outbuilding. He would begin the effort, but he decided that he would hand it over to Connor. It was important that he was able to work on something of his own. To accomplish something of his own. Even in the better Circle arrangements, mages were often robbed of growth and responsibility, and even the elder mages were simply lost old children. Lives wasted. Disregarded. Adult men and women afraid to take risks or initiative. Waiting around dumbly to be told what to do. 

Connor had likely been treated like a child. A dangerous child.

Anders recalled the great kindness that Tabris once dealt him. He hadn't known how to be free, once the Wardens took him, and he struggled to know what to do with himself. Pursuit and injustice had defined him. Now the chains were stricken off, and he could go where he wanted, talk to whomever he wanted, do whatever he wanted... so long as he obeyed his orders and upheld his duties. Kallian had shown him around the keep and taken him to a room, given it to him, and handed him the key to a door he could lock. She kept him busy with chores and errands around Amaranthine, dumping into his lap a big heap of responsibilities. Nathaniel struggled also-- a lord's son, with no more servants and men-at-arms to do his bidding-- but he'd been better off, and he took it upon himself to help Anders as he could. How to make change with money. How to barter at the market. How to tell people no.

At times, Anders recalled his life in Amaranthine with a bittersweet twist of wistfulness. Talking with Nathaniel, sitting up on the walls. Sharing a pint with Oghren. Flirting with Velanna-- and being put firmly in his place. She'd had none of that nonsense, as he recalled, and he deserved exactly what he got. Tabris had put them all to intense training and exercise, and though Anders never wanted to be a Warden, he had wanted friends. He wanted to belong. 

_Light of a bonfire. Good cooking smells. The people of the city carry brightly colored paper things. A festival for Andraste. You smile to yourself because you threw Nathaniel's knickers in the fire. Your prank war continued, but you didn't know it was Zevran who got you both to fight each other. Doesn't matter. All friends, even Tabris, in her own way. Laughter, companions, purpose-- but from the ramparts you see Justice, Kristoff's body tired and failing, as he struggles and drops against a tree... it won't be long now, you thought. Someone should help him._

Anders sighed. 

_You wanted to help him. You didn't know what could happen. When you did, you tried to save the both of you. When you couldn't, you tried to stop the both of you. He wouldn't let you._

"Far too early in the day for this," Anders murmured. He had caught himself on the well-worn steps of self-loathing, that corkscrew path that took him into familiar despair. He couldn't go that way right now, however, not with work needing to be done. It was of no use now. 

He ran his arm over his forehead, and stood back, looking at his progress. So far, he had drug out the weaponry and armor that he threw in there, and at least a partial frame of some moldering furniture that had been left to rot in the outbuilding. A table? An old loom? A rack of some kind? There was no telling its purpose now. Had this place been abandoned around the time of the Blight?

A voice called out in the forest. It sounded like Sennon. It was a breezy midmorning, and the sun was laying bright patches through the leaves. Anders wiped his hands and went toward the front of the cottage, where he had swept something of a path to join the trail below. 

Sennon made to call out again, but Anders held a finger to his lips. The elf understood at once, though he raised his brows as though to ask if something were wrong. He was in his traveling robes, Maura and Adahlen with him-- Maker, she was huge by this point. Anders shook his head gently and held his hands together by his ear, to pantomime sleep. 

"Ooh, do you have a friend staying over?" Of course Adahlen would tease him. 

"Now, that's none of our business," Maura said.

Sennon just smiled.

"I've taken in a runaway mageling," Anders told them. "He'll be resting now." As he walked up to them, Sennon offered his hand, and Anders met him with a kindly gesture. "I've left you some herbs I found in Lothering. You'll find them by your doorstep, unless the animals have made off with them." 

Maura said, "You're too kind, Trevelyan. I'll give the herbs a good home."

"There's not enough light to grow them here," he told her. "You've got that good patch of sun." 

"We've come up from Redcliffe," said Sennon. "We brought you a few things, didn't we? And just in time for your young friend." 

It seemed that Sennon carried Maura's pack in addition to his own. The old gentleman had been a kind and helpful presence in Redcliffe, a city elf come to live his golden years outside the alienage. There had been many changes with the succession of Bann Shianni Tabris. It was Adaar who had introduced Sennon and Maura, both grieving the loss of their companion, not yet ready to move into something more. Yet their growing friendship was a beautiful thing. Together they seemed to adopt Adahlen, an elven mercenary who was greatly pregnant. 

Maura made him a gift of some supplies, and Anders' heart panged to receive them. "Thank you," he said. "You don't know how sorely these are needed."

"You had better eat some of this yourself, now," Maura replied. "Don't give away all your food, like you always do." 

Anders set the satchel on a tree stump, and went into squeeze Maura's hand. She smiled at him, and he went in for a look at Adahlen. "As for you," he said, "how are we doing? Any changes since we last spoke?"

"I have to pee _all the time_ ," she announced with zesty triumph. "Sorry, Sennon!" 

The elven gentleman laughed and clapped his hands over his ears, and he and Maura drew away for a measure of privacy, but ostensibly to look at the flowers on some climbing vine. 

"But that can't surprise you, _hahren_ ," Adahlen continued in her fun tone of voice. "We've had to stop about twenty times on the way up from Redcliffe!" 

Anders grinned. Not only was she an easy patient, she was adorable, frankly. The sort of boisterous rogue that gave charm to any adventuring party. "That's the way of it," he told her. "I wouldn't worry about that. Babies love to dance on your bladder. Continue drinking water like we discussed."

They chatted a few moments about her health, Anders listening and watching her face. She was about thirty and her coloration reminded him somewhat of Fenris, though more of a golden brown where his tones had run silver and cool. Her hair was a dark color that almost wanted to be red. She had it shaved on the sides in what he thought looked like a fine warrior-type cut, and she asked Maura to touch it up from time to time. She said it made her feel like herself, when she'd had so many changes to her body lately.

Adahlen had been terrified when he first met her. Terrified and trying to be brave. The beginning of her pregnancy had been so difficult. Bleeding, nausea. It had been hard for her as a mercenary to find herself in so vulnerable a situation. A loss of autonomy. Anders wished he could find a suitable elven midwife-- perhaps he could if he traveled to Denerim or Highever-- but Adahlen seemed to have reservations. She insisted she didn't want that kind of trouble on her account, when such a midwife was sorely needed in the alienage. Anders had attended the birth of many an elven child in his time, and he didn't think it could possibly be any worse than the episode with Tabris and Zevran.

The elves departed on their way with warm words, and Anders watched them disappear up the trail into the forest.

Connor slept until midday, when Anders woke him by tapping on the surface of the table near his cot. Anders fed him bread and gave him water, and Connor revived only enough to take a bath in the old wine cask outside. Anders brought jugs of water from the rain barrel to dump over his head. Connor would have to wear Anders' spare set of clothes, which fit him much better. He'd have to boil those filthy Circle robes. 

It became apparent to Anders that there would be changes around the cottage. He'd have to keep better organized. Eat regular meals. Become accustomed to other people again. Anders felt so weary of conversation even long after Connor had fallen asleep. It was no mark on the boy, of course. Anders had always preferred to retreat into his own personal spaces after a time. Varric used to say that he was like a cat, independent and quiet.

Connor awoke sometime in the afternoon, with a peaceful breeze coming in through the open doorway of the cottage. He blinked as if not knowing where he was, tensing slightly, before he sagged back onto the cot. "I'm sorry, Trevelyan," he said. "I'm just so tired."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Anders told him. "Here is your first lesson as a healer. Always listen to your body."

Connor smiled a tense smile, and then he faded again.

.............

Anders started him out the next day with a review of his abilities. He brought the boy down to a stony patch flooded over by the river, and there, surrounded by swaying trees and immersed in fresh air, he had Connor demonstrate the extent of his schooling. He thought he did his best to mask his disappointment.

Disappointment not in Connor, of course. The boy performed to the level of his masters' expectations, which, Anders noted, were not considerable. He went through the forms with the aid of a staff, a basic progression through the typical Schools. Anders thought he was reaching a glimmer of promise by the time he had finished, but it was done, and Connor stood before him in a ready stance. Though Anders kept his expression neutral, Connor seemed to take it for a sign of disapproval. His ready stance melted into a posture of contrition, his eyes low.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was still learning."

Anders reserved his comments for now. "Nothing to be sorry for," he replied. "Please cast a barrier on both of us, but don't move from where you stand." 

Connor needed a staff for assistance, but there it was, the blue shimmer over them.

"Hit me with a chunk of ice."

Connor hesitated.

"Go ahead."

Connor threw an underhanded ball of ice.

"A bit more force. We're testing the barrier."

Connor pelted him. A good throwing arm, actually. The ice smeared over the barrier before it dissolved. 

Anders smiled then to reassure him. "Thank you. That's a good barrier." It was important to give him an honest compliment. "All right, staff down, come to me."

"I didn't do very well." 

"It wasn't terrible, but there's room for improvement." He'd know it if Anders lied to make him feel better. "It's not a reflection on you, however, Connor. It speaks of Kinloch tower. They've done you a disservice. You must learn how to walk, but they have taught you to limp."

"They wouldn't let me do anything. No one wanted to teach me." Connor twisted his hands in a grip on the staff. "I had to go everywhere with my own set of templars, and, and when they came to replace each other, they'd talk about the shift about how I was, my, my moods, what magic we did... "

Anders felt for him, thinking of the day-to-day humiliation. It would have been hard for him to make any friends. Students afraid of how it would make them look, or fearful of _catching something_ of their own. "You deserve respect and basic dignity, like all people do. You needn't feel any shame for how they treated you. I can't change that for you with mere words, but I hope in time it will become easier."

As they returned to the cottage, Anders told him, "There are different ways to become a healer. It may not be that you are intended for healing magic, but there are still plenty of ways that you can help people in distress. After all, the surgeons of Val Royaux have never cast a spell, nor the apothecaries in their shops or the wise-women of the woods. The midwives. The village healers. All of these people help." 

"You don't think I can do it," said Connor softly, without surprise. His face showed the shadowed acceptance of someone used to others giving up on him. He trudged along the forest path with no heart for the beauty of the wild all around them.

"I absolutely know you can do it," Anders replied. "It's only a matter of how that will be. The School of Creation. Bandages and herbs. Or simply knowing how to listen, which has a power all its own. I once knew a man who could make everything better without saying a word, and when he did talk, he knew just what to say. How to frame a problem. How to put himself in your place. He was a truly great and wise friend, and he had no magic at all. A dwarf, actually." 

Connor followed him through the wood. "But how did you become a Spirit Healer?"

"I don't think I became one. I just was one. I've only ever known one other, who was my teacher, but I hear we're all a weird lot. I'm going to make it look easy, but you should know that this is incredibly rare, so pay no attention to it. In fact, there's no skill to it for me, so I didn't even have to try. Perhaps that makes it cheap in a way. I've known much more talented mages who had to study and struggle for everything they've learned."

"But you could still teach me from the School of Creation."

"Yes, I believe so, but even if I can't, I won't let you walk away without the abilities you ought to have and the skills you wanted to know. I wanted to tell you this in the beginning, so that you knew what to expect."

"Thank you, Trevelyan."

"My pleasure. I'm so glad you're here, Connor."

The boy looked a little choked up. Maker in heaven. Anders wanted to slap the shit out of Irving-- had he remained as Grand Enchanter in Kinloch? Or had he done the right thing and stepped down, after, of course, he and the Knight-Commander fled Uldred's takeover.

Anders brought him to the fire before the cottage, and Connor went naturally toward the logs about it to have a seat. He must be unused to walking such distances. Anders let him have a moment. "Today's lesson will be safety, if we learn nothing else. Please start the fire there."

Connor rose, staff in hand. 

"I'll have to ask you to put your staff aside for now. We're going to work on your technique. The staff can be a conduit as well as a crutch-- and I sense they probably made it into your crutch, so they could choose to disarm you." 

Connor set the staff along the logs, a slight frown on his face. Yet he did as asked, and fire sprang to life beneath the cookpot.

"Very good. Do you know how to put out your own fire?"

"We relied on the templars to cancel our magic."

"Unsurprising, as it actually requires more skill to extinguish flames." Anders pulled the fire off the logs to snuff it out. "You redirect the heat when you do it. Very useful trick, in case a fire goes out of control. You saw what happened in the crossroads, didn't you, all those fires burning wild?"

Connor nodded soberly, and when Anders asked him to cast again, he lit a new fire.

"Good. May I?" Anders motioned at Connor's hand. The younger mage didn't appear to understand right away, but he allowed Anders to approach and take his hand by the wrist. "Now go like you're going in to cast again, but concentrate on pulling the flame away." Anders held his left hand over his own chest. "Sometimes it helps to visualize... pulling in a breath. Pulling the air out. Pulling the heat out."

Connor focused himself intently for a moment, and Anders shouldn't have been as surprised as he was when the fire snuffed out. 

Anders released his hand and stepped away. "Well done, Connor. Even I didn't get that on the first try." 

Connor seemed to yearn for praise, even as it made him uncomfortable. Without meeting Anders' eyes, and instead concentrating upon his task, Connor lit the fire and put it out again.

When Anders smiled, Connor smiled also, at last. 

"Burn it hot, please. I'll show you a spell that we'll work on tomorrow."

Connor blazed the fire, startling even himself, and Anders laughed gently. When the water reached a boil or thereabouts, Anders rolled up his sleeve to the elbow. Connor reacted immediately to the sight of his scars, but Anders paid them no mind. 

He plunged his hand into the boiling water, and Connor jumped back. "Trevelyan!" he cried.

Of course the pain was incredible, but that was the point. Anders brought up his hand to cast a basic heal. He showed Connor the red and bubbled flesh of his hand and how it smoothed away in the white glow of healing. "You'll learn to do this," he told Connor. "This is from the usual discipline. The best way for you to achieve this, I think, is for you to practice your barrier for the rest of the day."

His alarm fading, Connor nodded. A barrier covered Anders then-- thoughtful of him. Anders chuckled and said, "I don't need it now, but thank you. Practice your barrier, mind the fire, and clean your room. That's for you to do. That little building is yours now for the time being."

It would be good to give him a project of his own. A space of his own. And besides, it would allow Anders to roam around the cottage in the middle of the night if he wanted, without concern for waking Connor up. And of course privacy for the nightmares, which were intense from the Calling. 

The boy stared at him with a slowly building sense of purpose, and he smiled, somewhat tightly. "Thank you, Trevelyan. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to. Now let's have something to eat."

.............

Connor set about with industry to clear out his new space. Anders saw him blurring and flashing with a barrier from time to time. Anders even had one cast on him. He left the staff alone all day, and Anders began to think that Connor might catch up on his progress in no time. Much of magic was mental. An attitude. 

_You keep an eye on him, but you're not watching him. You let him do things on his own. He wanted to be trusted, and you gave that to him._

There was a little prying into Trevelyan's past. Anders made it clear that he would not answer certain questions, but Connor only seemed to want to know general things. Sometimes innocent things. If he'd lived like a normal man. If he'd had a trade. If he'd had a house. If he ever thought about the Grey Wardens.

And he'd wanted to know about the demon. How it happened. They were sitting on the logs around the fire, breaking bread and drinking broth together. Connor had gone quiet for a time before he asked; he'd been staring into the fire that popped with sap-filled wood.

"The spirit was my friend," Anders told him. "I wanted to help him. He wanted to help me. In some ways, the spirit did good things for me. Gave me purpose. The strength of conviction. I'd been a selfish young man, unsure of his place in the world, and set on a path I hadn't wanted." 

"Didn't you realize what would happen?"

"I thought I understood the consequences." 

"How long were you possessed?"

"A very long time, Connor."

"But you still... came back."

Anders smiled thinly. "What is left of me."

Connor held his bowl low in his hands. His eyes were sad, and he had to be thinking of their conversation that first night, when he had asked Anders if he had ever thought of suicide. 

"How were you cured?"

Anders considered whether or not to answer the question. He'd never spoken of this to anyone, not even Adaar, whose gentle understanding made him a comfortable companion. Yet he thought Connor should know at some point, as the explanation dovetailed with another matter of the boy's concern.

"It's painful to discuss," Anders told him at last. "Perhaps another time." 

"I'm sorry, Trevelyan."

"Don't be. You can ask me anything you like, but I won't always answer you. Just as you are in no way obligated to discuss with me anything you find uncomfortable. Now, it's up to you, but you should go to bed soon. I think we'll go down into the villages tomorrow."

Later, laying awake, Anders dreaded sleep with the nightmare so close to his heart. He knew he would dream of the room again, the eyes, but it turned out he didn't. As he drifted off, he had the impression of someone sitting in the chair nearby, and he dreamed a dream from memory. A rare good memory from before the extremes of life with Justice, restless always, who could never be happy. His dream was this, a thing he had nearly forgotten: the time that Zevran got the whole of Amaranthine to come alive in celebration, a holiday from Antivan culture, never mind that Tabris insisted it sounded made-up... 


End file.
